BLOODlight
by Hel-Lokisdotter
Summary: Bella Black and Bella Swan - one's a sadistic seventh-year Slytherin, the other's a 'normal' and adorably clumsy teenage hormone-heap. What happens when they suddenly swap lives? Well, a bloodbath in Forks, to start with... Violent, bloody fun!
1. Arrival

**A/N:** LOLOL IZ A BELLA AND A BELLA DO U SEE WHUT I DID THAR?  
Seriously, though… I just thought it would be funny, okay? I have a strange sense of humour. Rest assured, these first couple of chapters are probably the most in-depth character studies there will be in this fic. Pretty soon, the bloodbath will commence!  
I'm going to try and keep relatively in tone with both pieces – I'd be the first to admit that Twilight isn't exactly my favourite book, but it's difficult to satire anything if you just go "LOLOL IZ A FUNNY!" about it, so I'll try and do HP and Twilight relatively equal respect, regardless of personal opinion.  
I also plan on writing in the format of each book for chapters set in it – so chapters with Bellatrix in Forks will be first-person, chapters with Isabella in Hogwarts in limited third. I'm not going to try to aim for the same writing _style_, though, since neither of them really gel with mine.  
Flames are loled at, and appreciated for the amusement value, if nothing else, especially if they're imaginative. Concrit, as ever, is a great amount of love. Reviews in general are nice. This A/N is far too long.

**Arrival**

Charlie was waiting for me by the cruiser. This would have been far more explicable if I knew _why_ Charlie was waiting for me by the cruiser, or, indeed, who Charlie was. I just knew – for whatever reason – that Charlie would be waiting for me by the cruiser.

The 'cruiser' turned out to be one of those vile Muggle vehicles, this one admittedly rather sleeker-looking than most of those I'd seen, and painted white, with a coat of arms on the side and red and blue lights on the top – rather negating its smoothness and any tiny redeeming factor that might have brought it. It was hideous. Hideously American, hideously poor in appearance, and most of all, hideously Muggle. Just like the man standing in front of it. Despicable. I would have destroyed them both and Apparated back to Hogwarts, were it not for the fact that, for some inexplicable reason, my wand was missing – and my comfortable, modish fitted robes had been replaced by some hideous lace shirt, sleeveless and far too loose to be flattering, and 'jeans'. _Jeans_. I only knew what jeans _were_ from a few Mudbloods in my year who I had seen wearing them, and they were no more comfortable nor flattering than they appeared. And as for the coat I was wearing – short and padded and made from something slippery and clearly artificial – well, it couldn't have been less than fifty degrees, and I had been down to Hogsmeade and back in weather twice as cold and clothing twice as light. On the aeroplane – if that was what they were called – it had been stiflingly hot in the coat, but I hadn't seen the use in removing it.

At least I was still myself. That was certain, anyway. This was most likely a dream of some sort – or, at worst, those blood-traitor Prewett brats had finally managed to play a sucessful prank on me. Well, if that was the case, they would quickly find out what it meant to cross me, and I would guarantee, in due time, they would come to regret it with every inch of what would be left of them.

In the meantime, though, there were more pressing concerns. I knew, for example, that I was in some godforsaken corner of America – the accents I had heard had confirmed that much – and that the place was crawling with Muggles. I knew that I had lost my wand, and that Charlie was waiting for me by the cruiser. Besides that – nothing.

Gliding down the steps off the plane – which was rather more difficult in trousers than in robes – I was shocked beyond belief when this 'Charlie' straightened up from leaning against his vehicle, came over meet me, and wrapped one arm around me in what was most definitely a _hug_.

Believe me when I say that I do not experience many hugs. Oh, Cissa and Andi hug me when they are excited, of course, and Mother too. Occasionally, Father even ventures far enough from his study to spend some time with his eldest daughter, although hugs are a rare commodity from him. This, however, was the first time anybody outside my own family had hugged me, and _certainly_ the first time a complete stranger – a complete _Muggle_ stranger, no less – had taken it upon himself to greet me in such an uncouth way.

"It's good to see you, Bells," he said, a smile creeping over his idiotic face. "You…"

"_Bells_?" I repeated, with some incredulity, and arched one elegantly-shaped eyebrow. Bella, I could stand, although even that would be frankly impertinent from somebody I'd never met before. Even Cissa, though, had never called me anything so undeniably _stupid_ as 'Bells'. Lifting my chin, I looked down at him with all the disdain I could muster; despite himself, he shrank back slightly. "Who do you think I am?"

"My… daughter," he said hesitantly. "But now I'm not so sure. You've got a British accent…"

I hesitated. On the one hand, this man was becoming a major irritation. On the other, I was lost, wandless, and with no means of contacting anyone I knew; this seemed to be a Muggle district, and I certainly doubted that Floo powder would be an easy commodity to come by. Much as I hated to admit it, I needed somebody on my side, at least until I could find out where I was, why I was there, and, most importantly, how I could get back.

The smile, insincere as it was, came easily to my face; that winning smile which could always sway my father and which had brought more boys than I could count clamouring around my feet. I'd never had trouble summoning up the appearance of charm.

"I'm sorry… Dad." I'd never called my _own_ father Dad, of course, but this man seemed the sort whose daughters might. "I guess I just grew up a little." _I guess_ – that was an Americanism, wasn't it? And I could only hope that the girl he thought I was had been away long enough to make that feasible.

It seemed to be enough for the moment. "Okay, Bella – Bella's okay, right? I guess I just thought you'd be like you were last time I saw you. Stupid, really. All change in the big, bad city, right?"

"Yeah," I agreed, trying to summon up what I knew of American culture, which wasn't much. There'd been a half-American Mudblood at Hogwarts in my first year – I supposed she would have to do as a model. "And Bella's fine, I guess."

"Still, that accent's downright _weird_. Renée take you over to Europe or something?"

"I guess I've just watched a little too much television," I hazarded. Television wasn't a word I'd heard much, but it popped to mind, and the words – _tele-vision_, 'far-sight', if I remembered what Father had taught us of Greek and Latin – seemed to fit something you'd watch, something that might show you England.

Again, it seemed to be enough for Charlie. He nodded, his smile returning. "Well, Bella, it's good to see you, like I said. How's Renée?"

"Fine." It was a nice, multipurpose word. Fine could mean Renée – whoever _that_ was – was in prime condition, or it could mean she was dying, but gracefully, like Uncle Alphard (not that one could call Uncle Alphard graceful, given his history with the family).

"Oh, okay." He seemed nonplussed. "Glad to hear it. Shall we… shall we go and get your luggage?"

When that obstacle was sucessfully negotiated – I was very grateful to find that Charlie apparently knew some of which bags were mine; less grateful to find that this Bells character I was impersonating had brought less than three bags, none of which were very big – we fitted them into the space in the back of the cruiser, then climbed into the front.

"Seatbelt," he reminded me after a moment, when I didn't move. I blinked, not understanding, then saw the belt strapped over his chest and across his waist. Finding one on my own side, I strapped myself in and gave him another dazzling smile.

"Sorry. I was miles away."

"Just like always, huh, Bella?" He pushed down his foot on a pedal, making the cruiser thrum, and eased it out into a road. I'd never ridden in a Muggle car before, and I didn't much care for the vehicle. "Wouldn't look too good for Police Chief Swan to be driving his daughter around without a seatbelt on, huh? Which reminds me – I found a good car for you, so I won't have to keep on driving you around. Just like you asked. Better remember to put your seatbelt on when I'm not there to remind you, okay, Bells… I mean Bella?"

I hadn't really been listening – although I _had_ stored that name mentally; 'Police Chief Swan', which I guessed would make 'my' name Bella Swan – but that brought me up sharply. _I found a good car for you_. "What sort of car?" I asked warily.

"Well, a truck, actually - a Chevy." He turned his head to give me a bright smile, obviously expecting me to know what that meant. I didn't. "Not a bad one, either, for the price."

"How much was it?"

He flapped a hand. "Doesn't matter. I already bought it for you. A homecoming gift. Billy sold me it cheap, since he can't drive any more."

"Billy?" I needed to keep him talking. It would give him less chance to think – if a lump like this ever _did_ any thinking – and work out that he was taking a complete stranger home with him.

"Don't you remember Billy Black, down at Le Push?" Thankfully, he didn't wait for an answer before going on. "Used to go fishing with us in your summer vacations? Nice guy. Sold me the truck for next to nothing – it's not new, but he did some work on the engine, should run fine."

"Great." I gave him another of those insincere smiles. "Thanks, Dad. I really appreciate it."

"It's no problem. I want you to be happy here." He was looking straight ahead again, not meeting my eyes, the expression on his face very similar to the one Father or Regulus wore when they were embarassed by having to show their emotions. Good. I didn't want to have to deal with an overly clingy, emotional 'dad' while I was stuck here.

There was next to no chance of my being _happy here_, anyway, I thought irritably, glaring out of the window at the astonishing greenness flitting past. It looked like a miserable place to be – like the back end of England, but with more dangerous animals (if I remembered rightly), more problems with gaining the respect I was used to, and no wand. True, I could use wandless magic, but nothing powerful enough to get me _home_. Cissa and Andi would be missing me, for one thing – so would most of Slytherin House, but they were, for the most part, unimportant – and for another, I had yet to take my NEWTs. I wasn't about to let some stupid prank by a couple of first-year Ravenclaws get in my way, not when I knew I could make Mother and Father happy by getting good results – and if Father was happy, he was much easier to get things out of. No, I had to get home.

Besides, I'd end up missing them. Cissa and Andi, at least.

As for this Muggle, as soon as I could work out a plan of action, he could be taken out of the picture. All I needed was a little information and a knife or two, and, with or without a wand, he wouldn't be hugging or babbling or calling me Bells much longer.

I wanted that drive to be over as soon as possible – and, as soon as I reached the house, I wished it wasn't. This _couldn't_ be my base of operations! It just _couldn't_! It was small – tiny compared to our estate outside Bristol – and poky, with an aggressively cheerful feel to it. I hated it on sight – almost as much as I hated the bulky red car parked on the road outside it.

"Ain't she a beauty?" Charlie asked cheerfully, nodding to the red car.

"That's not what I'd call it," I muttered darkly, and was gratified to see his face fall. Now that I looked closer, I could see that it had a few good things about it – it was sturdy, for a start, and looked as if it could hold a fair bit – but on the whole, it was still a hideous object, blocky and ugly and the epitome of everything I disliked about Muggles. Being seen near it would be a humiliation – but on the other hand, so would being forced to sleep outside in the rain if I blew my chances of this place to stay. It would be temporary, at least, I thought. It would be temporary.

We made our way inside and up the stairs. Everything inside the house extruded that same air of rather desperate cheerfulness, and when I finally got to 'my' room, I almost vomited. It was _disgusting_ – pastel colours, lace, a rocking chair in the corner, everything more saccharine than I had thought imaginable. Nonetheless, I gave Charlie a smile as he helped me with my bags – he really was as servile and as easy to please as a house-elf, I thought dismissively – and made a show of appreciating the room. When he was gone, I heaved a massive sigh of relief and locked the door.

This was terrible.

This was _worse_ than terrible. It would have been terrible to be stranded, to be in an unknown place in an unfamiliar country, to have to pretend to be somebody… well, that this was her room spoke volumes. What was _worse_ than terrible was to be in such a position among _Muggles_!

But it couldn't be helped. I consoled myself with the knowledge that, sooner or later, I would be well away from here – and Charlie and his entire town would pay the penalty for upsetting me.

For now, I had to turn my mind to the practicalities. As I unpacked the bags – 'Bells' had lamentably few clothes, and nothing remotely like what I was used to – I considered my situation. It was September, for a start. If school hadn't started already, it would soon – I had to be prepared for the possibility that I would have to attend. And then there was the house – I got the impression that Bells was supposed to know her way around, so asking might put Charlie's slow mind to work. I would have to investigate while he wasn't there. And I had to be ready for the possibility that there might be somebody who would write to check that Bells had arrived safely.

Sighing, I ran my fingers through my hair – and cursed. It was _brown_! My beautiful, sleek hair, the hair that was as perfectly black as it was perfectly Black, was _gone_, replaced by this hideous, boring, _brown_! And so _short_ – it was lopped off just at my ribs, ugly and graceless and…

Hissing threats and curses down upon the head of whoever had done this to me, I leapt to my feet and rushed out of the room, thankfully meeting no resistance as I rushed up the stairs in search of a bathroom, hands tangled in my horribly brown hair. I finally found the tiny bathroom at the top of the house, kicked the door shut, and glared at my reflection in the mirror.

Hideous! Hideous! There was not a feature on my face that even _suggested_ that I was a Black; not my lovely grey eyes, not my straight, slightly pointed nose, not my slim, graceful lips or my carefully-plucked eyebrows – the girl staring back at me was as Muggle, as ugly, and as ordinary as everything else here! Brown hair, brown eyes – only the skin was elegant at all, and even that was pallid and sallow, quite unlike my own smoothly ivory complexion. This face, like my own, was heart-shaped and passably handsome, but compared to the features of a pureblood Black, dull, uninteresting, plain. Horrified, I took an inadvertant step back from the mirror.

My _eyes_! My _hair_! What had _happened_ to me? The figure in the mirror wasn't quite as ugly as I had thought at first, but… no. No, I could _not_ be stuck with looks like these! This was one more indignity on top of all the others, the straw to break my back, and I _would not stand for it_!

They would _pay_! Whoever had done this to me, for whatever motive and in whatever way, _they would pay_!

Strengthened somewhat by that thought, I tossed back 'my' hair – I could get rid of it easily, after all, once I had my wand again – and started a little more serenely back to my room. "They will pay," I repeated under my breath, my lip curling, and smiled thinly. There would be a way out of this. And whoever had forced me into this mess would regret it until their dying breath – which I would ensure was much, much later than they would ask, pray, _beg_ it to be.

There would be vengeance.


	2. New Beginnings

**A/N:** What do you know? I _am_ capable of updating!  
Also, my plans for this fic have slightly shifted since I realised that I have next to no plot with Isabella at Hogwarts. There'll be fewer chapters of that, more of Bellatrix. Besides, she's so much more fun to write. XD Also, I'm afraid the bloodbath will take place later than scheduled. BUT ON THE OTHER HAND, I UPDATED.  
Enjoy!  
This chapter is dedicated to Kimbers, because she's the one who coerced me into finishing it off. There we go, Kim. I kept my side of the bargain. Now you keep yours. :3

**New Beginnings**

I didn't sleep well that night. In fact, I didn't sleep at all. The mattress was lumpy and obviously cheap, the room alternated wildly between too hot and too cold, and I was busy thinking of ways to kill Charlie, the Prewetts, and anyone who might possibly have had anything to do with my current miserable situation. That was almost a comforting enough thought to send me to sleep from time to time, except that it inevitably reminded me of what my situation _was_, which was enough to make me angry enough not to sleep.

Early the next morning, before the sun was up, I got out of bed and dressed quickly – I had given up any hope of finding remotely familiar clothing before I had even finished unpacking the night before, and had to settle for more 'jeans', these looser and with more breathing space, and a long-sleeved, tight-fitting black shirt. They were at least less hideous than what I had been wearing the day before. Whoever Bells Swan was, she seemed sickly-sweet as a picture of kittens in a basket of flowers. Disgusting.

Washing in the tiny little bathroom upstairs, I looked up at the strange face in the mirror again. Heavy eyebrows, lank hair, mud-coloured eyes… it was no better in the light of the breaking dawn outside, or in the harsh artificial light from the shade overhead, than it had been the night before. Horrible. Hideous. I only hoped I could get my own looks back when I returned home. Gritting my teeth all the while, I bathed quickly, dragged a hairbrush through the coarse, dripping ratstails this left, and plaited it neatly behind me. If I couldn't see it, I could forget that the ugly colour was there, and maybe even how short it was. As for the eyes, and the horrible, sallow skin, there was nothing I could do but forget about them. As soon as I had my wand back, they would be gone, and Bells could be wiped off the face of the earth. Good.

Until then, though, I would simply have to make do with what there was. Find myself a niche in this hideous situation, and fit there. Once I had my footing, I could use the situation to my advantage. Grandfather Arcturus had taught me _that_ art a long time ago. _Then_ the day would be mine. _Then_ the blood could start flowing. Until then, I could wait.

Sighing, I tucked a stray hair behind my ear (whoever had cut this girl's hair seemed to have gone at it with a blunt knife and a blindfold), and glanced down at the make-up palette I had found in one of the miserably small bags. One look told me that it wasn't worth the attempt – I had never really had the need for make-up before, so any improvement it could lend to the little I had to work with would doubtless be negated by my own lack of expertise in applying it. Besides, Bells was simply _ugly_. I wanted my own body back, and I would have it.

_In time_, I reminded myself, in Grandfather Arcturus' voice. _In time_.

My priority, for now, had to be gaining people's trust. Not being overly friendly – after all, I was no Cissa, no social butterfly, and I didn't much care for the idea, either – but I was the most popular girl in Slytherin for a reason, and that reason wasn't just my beauty. No, I knew how to manipulate people. How to make them love you, when you barely had to raise a finger. It was a useful skill.

And I had learnt from the best.

Never mind that this body was ugly or that I didn't fit it. Never mind, even, the lack of my wand. What kind of a Black needs magic to get their way?

I had to start with that stupid lump downstairs. Charlie. I was sure Bells, saccharine-sweet as she seemed, would be a daddy's girl of the highest order, so if he was to be kept from suspecting anything, he had to be kept sweet. And he must _not_ suspect anything. I never understood my father's fascination with chess, but one thing it taught me was that timing was essential. If I moved too soon, it would all have been for nothing.

If I moved too soon, I would have no choice but to kill them _all_.

I looked out of the window. In the thick fog that was gathering outside, it was almost posible to imagine that I was home. That was a more comforting thought than I cared to admit… but it didn't last long; a growling engine soon put paid to that tempting notion. Sighing, I made one final doomed attempt to make my hair look mildly presentable, then pulled on the shirt and jeans. They clung oddly to me, clearly of some artificial fabric. Something Mudbloods made, I supposed, to substitute for silk or cotton. Either way, the effect, in the little mirror above the sink, was… not _good_, but acceptable. I looked like a human being, at least, not some wool-haired, badly-painted rag doll.

Tugging the shirt straight, I tested my best smile in the mirror. That, at least, seemed unchanged. By my reckoning, a smile like that – even if it looked different on this sallow, brown-eyed girl – would be enough to twist men around my little finger, just like it always was. Good. That was a start.

It was, apparently, the only good start I was to have that day.

Breakfast with Charlie was a blessedly quiet event. He wished me good luck at school. I thanked him, knowing his hope was wasted. After all, I had been taught since I was old enough to understand the words that luck was something one made for oneself – Father had never been the superstitious type, and he had brought us up to be much the same.

And I had no intention of enjoying myself. What chance was there of that, caged in some Yankee backwater with nobody but Mudbloods for company? No, I wouldn't enjoy myself. And I wouldn't need good luck.

When he was gone, I was left to consider my options. For a start, the idea of driving that hideous "Chevy" was laughable. Even had it not been such an eyesore, I had to concede that I had no idea _how_. I would only embarrass myself – as if it wouldn't be embarrassment enough to be seen in the front seat of something so graceless and ugly. No, the Chevy was not even an option.

What did that leave? Well, I couldn't fly without a broomstick. I didn't know how to Apparate, even if I had been in possession of a wand. And I had to keep up appearances, so simply not going to school wasn't an option, either – besides, if I was to work out a way to escape this godforsaken pit, I would have to ingratiate myself with _everyone_, not just this stupid lump.

So that only left one option. I would have to walk.

There was a map of Forks in the drawer. Charlie had told me where to find it. I looked over it a moment, double-checking my heading. It wouldn't do, after all, to get lost. That would just be embarrassing. What kind of a witch gets herself lost among Mudbloods?

Two miles. That wasn't so bad. Two miles was walking distance, although I would much rather not have to walk it, not in the steady, foggy drizzle now trickling down. Maybe I could bat my eyelashes at a passing driver, find my way to the school like that. If not, well, it would still be more dignified than arriving in the thing outside.

Two miles would take time, though, in the eventuality of nobody passing by to pick me up. I should get going now – to Cissa's despair, I have always proved a little resistant to decorum for decorum's sake, but one thing I do know; there is a significant difference between fashionably late and boorish. I had no intent of beginning my unfortunate time here labelled as a social ignoramus.

I found an umbrella in the hall, black and simple, like the ones you see in Muggle London, should you venture that way. Not ideal, but it would serve, as would the coat which I had found in Bells' bags, and which I now pulled on. Locking the door as I went out – force of habit, as the eldest of the family, left over from when Andi and Cissa had a habit of toddling into my room; I really could not have cared less whether the Mudblood was robbed – I tossed my hair back, opened the umbrella as the first drops of rain began to cling to my hair, and set out onto the narrow verge. By the time I looked back, perhaps five minutes later and no more than a hundred yards down the road, the house was lost in the thick, swirling fog.

It couldn't have been more than ten minutes later that the first vehicle stopped for me. It looked like the Chevy, as far as I could tell, although the lines were a little sleeker and it was silver, not red. The driver, a slack-jawed old yokel of perhaps sixty, rolled down the glass window on my side, leaning over to ask if I needed a lift.

This Chevy was hardly an improvement on my own. I shook my head, but – a precaution – turned on the charm as I declined politely. I wanted to walk, I said. It wasn't as though it was exactly pouring, and the fog would pass over soon – but thank you for the offer, I added, with a flash of that winning smile.

The effect wasn't as awe-inspiring as usual, but he was obviously impressed. He drove on, after a moment, with a look back at me.

Several more vehicles stopped to offer me rides. I got the feeling that walking wasn't exactly a popular activity along this particular road – I may be proud of my charm and looks, but I'm hardly arrogant enough to believe that so many people would offer rides to a girl who they could barely see in the mist, and who hadn't spoken a word to them. Eventually, sick to the bone of the steady drizzle and the barely-fading fog – honestly, the rumours I had heard of America tended to imply that leaving fog and rain in the Highlands would be one of the few remote advantages of being transplanted here from Hogwarts – I accepted an offer from a over-plump young woman. The vehicle was black, which was good – simple - and, despite obviously not being new, even to my unpractised eye, the lines of it were more elegant than most of the ones that had hailed me.

If I had been shocked by everything else thus far, though, it was nothing to my reaction to the school. With care, I kept the polite smile on my face as the woman turned off the road and down towards the buildings clustered nearby, but I was horrified.

Hogwarts had been my first school – a castle befitting witches and wizards, large and imposing. Before that, I had been tutored, alongside my sisters, in our house in Yorkshire, an ancestral home which Father had decorated, and which was thus the epitome of good taste. I had seen a lot elsewhere, too - my father enjoyed travelling, and had often taken us with him throughout our childhood – but in all my experience, there was nothing to rival the sheer _tastelessness_ of the architecture here. Giant, blocky houses, lacking either the streety simplicity of Grimmauld Place or the casual elegance of the Yorkshire house. And _maroon_. Had whoever designed this place been struck blind halfway through the plans? It was hideous.

The inside, when I got there, was just as tasteless. Too brightly-lit, by the same kind of obviously artificial light that Charlie had in his house. Too hot, too; almost as soon as I stepped into the sweltering little room, sweat started to bead under my arms, and I shrugged off my jacket quickly. Urgh. I hoped fervently that the entire school wasn't so overheated, and made a mental note to dress cooler tomorrow if it was.

I was still looking around this exercise in tastelessness – too many plants, in too-bright pots, orange-flecked carpet, folding chairs and overloud clock – when the woman at one of the three desks saw me. She, like everything else here, was brash and tasteless in looks – red hair, too much makeup, and a purple shirt. I wondered idly whether this tendency to bright colours, infantile shapes, and eye-burningly tasteless décor was specific to America, or specific to Mudbloods.

"Can I help you?"

Simple is always best when lying. Simplicity, and charm. I smiled at her.

"My name is Bella Swan?" I allowed a questioning note into my voice, a waver of uncertainty, even nervousness. Charmingly innocent, a confused girl in a new place. She ate it up.

"Of course," she said with a smile, obviously charmed – or as charmed as any woman can be whose job is working with the public, I suppose – and started to rifle through the mess of papers on her desk. Father or Regulus would have had a heart attack if they had seen the chaos in front of her; she seemed to have no system for anything. Even I was shocked, and I am hardly as picky as either my father or my cousin.

After a moment, she stood up, a few sheafs of paper in her hand (purple nail varnish, the same colour as her shirt. Not a good start) and pushed them over the counter to me. "I have your schedule right here, and a map of the school," she informed me with a smile, and started to explain the routes to all my classes. I listened attentively for a while, then rather lost interest. It couldn't be too hard to find somebody to accompany me to lessons, after all, and her voice, with that vile American accent, was like listening to nails on a chalkboard. Besides, if I could find my way around Hogwarts, what was some little Muggle school?

"Get your teachers to sign these," she told me eventually, handing over some slips of paper – it all felt light and flimsy, and I already longed for parchment – and smiling at me again. "I hope you enjoy your time in Forks, Isabella. I'm sure you won't find it too hard to adjust."

Isabella? Well, that was another discovery. Isabella Swan; I turned the name over in my mind, and was surprised to find that I didn't dislike it too badly. It was hardly a Black name, but it would do for as long as I was stuck here.

I thanked her with a smile, trying to impersonate her accent at least a little. I wanted to fit in at least a little, after all. With a London accent, I would stick out like a sore thumb, and that was no way to keep one's head down. Hopefully, any oddness in the accent would be put down to being from… wherever Isabella was from.

When I headed back outside, more of the Muggle vehicles were starting to arrive, most of them driven by what I could only assume were my fellow students. Without squinting, though, all I could see was what they were driving; all of them were hideous, and only one, a large, shiny thing not unlike a more streamlined version of the Chevy, looked even remotely new. I wondered who drove it. Maybe I could make them my ride to school from now on; this was clearly the height of sophistication among these people.

It was still raining. I didn't bother to put my jacket back on – after the heat inside, the cold fog was a profound relief – but I put the umbrella up quickly. 'Drowned rat' has never been a look guaranteed to make friends and influence people. Around me, the pavement was now swarming with students, around my own age, although none looked younger than perhaps fifteen – I supposed, again, both the Muggle and the American school systems must be different to ours.

I had memorised the position of my first lesson while the red-haired woman had been blathering on, so I headed towards building 3 with confidence, striding along. Without the swish of robes around my legs, I felt odd – rather naked, in fact – but I tried not to let it show.

True to form, the designers of this tasteless monstrosity of a school had chosen to make things obvious enough for the idiots who likely inhabited it; the 3 on the side of the building was huge, a thick black scrawl on a large white square at the corner of the building. The classroom, when I headed inside, was small to the point of claustrophobia; two girls in front of me stopped to hang up their coats, and I imitated them, shaking rain off my umbrella and hanging it on the same hook as my coat. I was eminently conscious of the fact that everyone's eyes were on me, and I rather welcomed the attention. It would be easier to ingratiate myself to these Mudblood idiots if they were ready to talk to me.

The teacher's nameplate introduced him as Mr Mason – Mr, not Professor, which I found fairly odd. Then again, after what I had seen of the town so far, I had hardly been expecting sophistication. Tucking a stray strand of brown hair behind my ear, I gave him my most winning smile. You could almost see him melt under it – along with most of the boys in the room, I might add. And some of the girls.

"Hello," I said to him with a smile, holding out one of the slips the woman had given me. "I'm Bella. I'm new here." Still trying to mimic that grating American accent, not that he seemed like he was going to care.

He gawked at me. I smiled back at him, tilting my chin up and taking the slip off him as I went to sit in the empty seat at the back. Several of the boys were still staring at me, some openly, some back over their shoulders, in furtive, sneaky glances. I just sat there, chin lifted, and met their gazes with quiet superiority. Already, I could tell, I had fifty percent of this class twisted around my little finger.

Maybe not such a bad start, after all.


	3. Meet The Cullens

**A/N:** Anyone expecting regular updates clearly doesn't know me, that's all I'm saying.

**Meet The Cullens**

I sat through the lesson consumed by boredom, and utterly uninterested either by whatever it was Mr Mason was droning on about. Once or twice, I glanced at the reading list he had given me. Unsurprisingly, none of the names on it were at all familiar to me. A couple I had heard in passing before – Shakespeare was one, Chaucer another – but altogether, as uncultured and unfamiliar as I had expected. Well, I hardly intended to be around long enough to read what was on this list, after all. What did it matter?

After that, I turned my attention away from the lesson altogether, toying with a strand of my coarse, mud-coloured hair, which had escaped from its plait, and contemplating all the ways in which I would avenge myself upon everyone and anyone responsible for my current miserable state. Most of my classmates were staring at me, which was oddly comforting; I might not be my usual aristocratic self, but it didn't hurt to be the centre of attention, anyway. In fact, I could probably use it to my advantage, if I just...

My thoughts were rudely interrupted by some awful buzzing klaxon, which set my teeth on edge, but apparently signalled the end of the class, as the heaving masses around me started to gather their things together and stand up. I noticed, with a little smirk, that one of the boys who had been among the most shameless gawpers was now being upbraided by someone I could only assume was his girlfriend. Good to know that, even ugly, I still had my charisma.

"You're Isabella Swan, aren't you?" One of the gawpers, a skinny boy with terrible acne and greasy black hair, leant across the aisle between our desks, and I looked away from the arguing couple with a faint, distracted smile.

"Bella," I corrected him, looking down my nose a little. I couldn't imagine this was one of the big names of this school; he looked altogether too over-eager and desperate for that. Less Malfoy and more Snape, I thought, with a little smirk. No need to exhaust myself keeping _him_ on my side. Still, people were watching. Best to keep up appearances. I was a grating, sickening, _nice_ American Mudblood. And if I could keep that in mind, everything would go without a hitch. Even if the thought of it made my skin crawl.

"Where's your next class?"

I was beginning to think I'd made a mistake in not telling him just how little I cared for hangers-on like him. If I wasn't careful, this idiot would cling to me for the rest of the day, making it impossible to start building connections with the people who might actually make a difference in this school. Still, no sense in turning back now; that would only make me seem more unpredictable, and people liked predictability. I had to get their trust. Otherwise, I could find myself in real trouble. So I just pulled out my timetable, barely glancing at it – no need; I had already memorised the first few lessons.

"Government, with Professor Jefferson, in building six."

"I'm headed towards building four, I can show you the way. I'm Eric," he added.

_Merlin_, I thought, _what a witless sycophant_. But all I said out loud, with my most charming smile, was "And I'm fine. But thank you for offering, Eric. It was nice to meet you." And with that, I swept my bag over one shoulder and headed for the door without a backwards glance. Hopefully, he would get the message.

He didn't. His type never do. No sooner was I outside, with the rain blattering heavily on the pavement, than Eric was coming up beside me again.

"So, this must be a lot different to Phoenix, huh?"

For a split second, I had to bite back an angry retort. What would it take to make this pathetic Mudblood leave me alone? But I just smiled at him, showing my teeth, and asked lightly, "Phoenix?"

"Well, that's where you come from, isn't it?" He sounded momentarily uncertain, but for my part, I was suddenly glad that the idiot had decided to fixate on me. After all, that was one more nugget of information about this Isabella. Perhaps, if he continued blathering on, I might find out more about who I supposedly was.

For now, though, damage control. Sheepish wasn't an emotion I was used to, but I tried to channel Cissa and make my laugh just as sheepishly charming as I could. "Oh, of course. Sorry, I was miles away. Yes, I suppose it is."

"It doesn't rain much there, does it?"

"No," I hazarded, as confidently as possible. "It's very sunny. Quite different to here."

He frowned slightly. I ran back over what I had said in my mind, and mentally cursed myself. I'd forgotten that hideous American accent! What a stupid mistake to make. I would have to listen to the way people talked around here, and, however painful it was, incorporate that into my own speech, or a few strange looks would be the least of my worries.

Thankfully, it didn't seem to enter his empty head to question it for more than a moment. Instead, he just picked up the conversation again, with a suitably banal observation; "You don't look very tan."

"I stay inside a lot," I improvised. "Otherwise, I get terrible sunburn."

"Woah." He made a face, which made him look even more ridiculous. "That must suck. I mean, sunburn in Arizona... that's a bummer."

Woah. Suck. Bummer. Merlin, this place was going to take more getting used to than I had anticipated. It was as if he was speaking a different language – one which he clearly expected me to be fluent in, as well. I shrugged noncommitally, and allowed his conversation to wash over me, making little replies where they seemed demanded, until we reached building six. Eric led me right up to the door, and, as I put my hand on the handle, wished me luck. I just smiled at him.

"I don't believe in luck," I told him, opening the door and folding up my umbrella.

"Well, maybe we'll have more classes together..." He sounded hopeful. I didn't dignify it with a response, though; just closed the door on him, not without some relief.

The morning continued in much the same vein; a few lessons, punctuated by introductions and otherwise just as boring as the first, spent now with one ear on the teacher speaking in an attempt to glean more of that strange accent I was expected to have. The classes were by turns baffling and boringly easy – Spanish seemed the only one with any merit to it, while Trigonometry was something Father had taught me long before I even entered Hogwarts - laughably simple. I whiled the way the time in conversation with the curious few who dared to ask me questions. Misdirection was easy; what interested me was their reactions to my accent. From their dead-eyed incuriosity about it – and the number of them who swallowed my "watching British television" excuse – I no longer doubted my ability to pull this off by the time lunch came.

I walked to lunch with a girl – Jessica, I thought her name was – who prattled inconsequentially the entire time, giving me plenty of scope to turn most of my mind to the task ahead. I followed her into the 'cafeteria' (as they called the dining area), scanning the room as we entered. It seemed wildly chaotic – no long oak tables here, or clear divisions between Houses. Instead, several smaller tables, scattered around the room, some full, some almost empty. The steady hum of conversation was the only similarity with the Great Hall I was used to. I followed her lead in fetching my own lunch – honestly, didn't these Muggles have _anything_ to take the place of house-elves? – my eyes still roving over the students, taking scope of the place. They all seemed the same; all sloppily dressed and without any kind of grace to their bearing, all unbearably common and unbearably Muggle. All except...

I cleared my throat, catching Jessica's attention, as we got our lunch. "Who are they?" I asked under my breath, indicating the students who had caught my eye.

They were sitting in the corner of the room, a good distance from where we stood. There were five of them gathered around the cheap table, three girls and two boys, all sitting there in a rare oasis of silence. Each of them had a tray in front of them, like the one I was carrying, but none of them were eating. Nor were they staring, as most of the school seemed to be. I might be insulted, were it not for one thing; the five students around that table were the only people in that entire room who seemed remotely my calibre of company.

They looked nothing alike in most respects; varying builds, haircuts, clothing. But, for all that, there was an eerie similarity to them. They all had very pale skin – not sallow, like that of the girl whose body I was trapped in, but the elegant ivory-white of my own family's complexion – and dark shadows under their eyes, as though they were tired or sick. And all of them, even by my exacting standards, were beautiful. Utterly, inhumanly beautiful. My bloodline had been bred in part to produce beauty, to produce perfection, and yet even I – a pure Black and a beautiful one at that – would have looked dowdy beside them.

As I watched, the smaller of the two girls – fine-boned and svelte, with messily-cropped black hair which somehow made her look no less feminine – stood, moving with an easy grace I would have been hard-pressed to match, and emptied her untouched food into a nearby rubbish bin, darting out of the room.

"Who are they?" I repeated to Jessica, more curious than ever. That girl could almost have been a Black – the _ideal_ Black.

"Those are Edward and Emmett Cullen, and those are Jasper and Rosalie Hale." She spoke under her breath, as though they could hear her from the far corner. "The girl who just left was Alice Cullen. They all live together with Dr. Cullen and his wife, but..."

I was no longer listening. Frankly, that was all I felt any need to know. That, and that this strange family seemed the closest thing to good company in this wretched school. I recognised Slytherins when I saw them, even if they were Muggles who had never seen the Sorting Hat in their lives. And, above all, I recognised good company.

I made my excuses swiftly and without regret, and left Jessica gawking after me as if I were some kind of exotic new animal. Oh, well. In all fairness, she had been looking at me like that for most of the morning, so I was hardly surprised. As I approached the table in the corner, one of the boys – the one with bronze-coloured hair who Jessica had conveniently identified to me as Edward Cullen – looked over his shoulder at me. His stare had a different quality to the others I had been subjected to today – a more subtle equinamity, as though some expectation of his had gone unmet. He looked me up and down for a moment, then turned away again, lips moving almost invisibly as he talked inaudibly with the others. Then, as I drew close to their table, they stood up, as one, and moved away.

Anger boiled in my gut, mixed with an unfamiliar feeling – embarrassment. How dare they? The snub was obvious, and it smarted. I had never been brushed aside so carelessly, or so disdainfully. I had never – _never_ – been rejected like that. I was a Black, for Salazar's sake! Whether they knew it or not, I was from a better bloodline than _they_ could dream of, the filthy Muggle scum! They should be _privileged_ to have me among their company, since I was clearly the only student here on a par with them in grace or breeding! How _dare_ they?

My temper, which had almost begun to lift on seeing them, was now thoroughly soured. I struggled to keep myself under control, all but slamming my tray down on the empty table, and glaring fiercely at my baked potato as I sliced into it. All my effort was dedicated to not showing my anger to the hordes of students now staring at me in earnest. After all, they had no _idea_ of how much right I had to be angry, and I didn't want to get myself a reputation for petulance before my first day was over.

Still, I was fuming, and I went on fuming even as I made polite conversation with the curious onlookers who came to join me. I excused myself as soon as I had finished my meal, returning my tray as I had seen the others do, and headed outside to explore the campus. I didn't need any more friendly help in finding my next lesson, thank you so very much.

I found the building where my next lesson was almost at once, but when that hideous klaxon sounded again to signal the end of lunch, I was at the other end of the school, still wondering at the apparent colourblindness of the architect. By the time I got back to my Biology classroom, my temper was finally under control again, and I felt able to make my entrance with some panache.

I was one of the last students there. As I came into the room, my head held high and my composure fully restored, the last of my classmates, a tall girl with light brown hair, took her seat. There was only one seat left, and, as I saw who was sitting directly beside it, my temper began to rise again. There was no mistaking that messy red-brown hair, or that implausibly perfect face. Cullen.

Swallowing my irritation – irritation was all it was; there were much worse things than having to share a desk with someone who, if rude, was at least less common than most of the students here – I headed down the aisle towards the professor's desk, to introduce myself and get my slip signed. I watched Cullen out of the corner of my eye, wondering whether he had noticed me or the desk situation, gauging his reaction. If he had, it wasn't until I passed him that he reacted, tensing suddenly in his seat and giving me a glare that would have put Grandfather Arcturus to shame.

Fortunately, among the things I had inherited from Grandfather Arcturus _was_ his infamous Black glare, and I returned Cullen's scowl with a look of equal venom. That, at least, was something no amount of misfortune could lessen; I was still ferociously angry over my humiliation at lunchtime - all the more so since he seemed to think _I_ was the rude one in the equation – and he was going to know about it, or my name wasn't Bellatrix Elladora Black.

I looked away first, but only to collect my textbook and signed slip from Professor Banner. Then, with all the frigid grace learnt from sixteen years as the most eligible witch in Britain, I glided to the seat next to Cullen, setting my textbook down on the table and sitting down with my knees tucked elegantly together. From the corner of my eye, I saw him tense still further, leaning away from me with his head turned as though I smelt bad. I didn't bother to check whether that was true; I knew it wasn't.

This lesson turned out to be one of the baffling ones. I had never come across anything like this before – something to do with plants, cells, and something called 'mitosis', which I had never heard of. It wasn't long before I gave up listening entirely, resolving to read the textbook later and see what I could puzzle out from that – it never hurt to have an intellectual edge over one's fellow students. For the time being, though, I applied myself to the rather more pressing mystery.

Cullen.

He was still sitting stiffly, barely seeming to breathe, his fist clenched. For several minutes, I watched him, curious to see whether he would react – to me, to his classmates, to the lecture. He didn't. His face was turned away from me, and he had shifted to the very edge of his chair, putting as much distance between the two of us as was humanly possible.

"Cullen?" I asked, under my breath. Then, very slightly louder, when he didn't respond, "Edward Cullen." Still, no reply. I went on anyway, my eyes darting to the professor to make sure I hadn't caught his attention, then back to Cullen. My anger was building up again. Still, let him play it his way. I turned away again, my own fist clenching around my pen, and glowered at the blank notebook in front of me. _Keep a handle on yourself, Bellatrix_, I ordered myself sharply, my fingers tapping an irritable tattoo on the black worktop of my desk. At home, I might be able to get away with giving in to anger, but this was a long, long way from home.

I sat there, raging silently, my eyes on the desk, not quite daring to look up at Cullen for fear of my anger boiling over at last. It felt like a very long time before that insufferable klaxon went off at last. Then, at last, I looked up at him – and found him glaring back down at me, those black eyes filled with contempt. Well, two could play at that game.

This time, he broke away first, almost as soon as I turned my head, and was out of the door before I could blink.

For a moment, I sat there, frozen with sheer rage. If my wand had made the trip with me, I would have been sorely tempted to send a Killing Curse after him, repercussions be damned. As it was, though, all I could do was sit there, my fists clenched until I felt the nails bite into my palms, and swear to myself that there would be vengeance. Soon, there would be vengeance.

"Aren't you Isabella Swan?"

I had to take a few deep, steadying breaths before I dared to look up, let alone answer. The speaker was a boy with spiked blonde hair and a childish face, whose friendly smile faded when he saw the look in my eyes. He took a step backwards, which I doubted he even noticed.

"I, uh... I'm Mike." He sounded thoroughly thrown. I wasn't surprised. A Black in a temper is a formidable thing.

With an effort, I forced the anger down again, trying to slide back into my Isabella persona. "Sorry... hi, Mike. I'm Bella."

"Are you okay?" He seemed genuinely, even pathetically concerned. "You looked kind of upset."

"Don't worry about me." I even managed a smile, albeit not one of my most dazzling. "I'm fine."

"Oh, good." The relief in his voice was almost funny. He cleared his throat. "Do you need any help finding your next class?"

I shook my head. The anger was still there, although I thought I probably had control of it by now, and I could really do without company to exacerbate it. "I'll be okay," I answered, carefully. "I already went exploring. I think I can find my way to the gym all right."

"Hey, that's my next class, too!" He sounded far too enthused by the idea. Inwardly, I groaned. Fantastic. Another hanger-on, when I was sick and tired of the company at this school already. Still, there weren't many ways to turn him down politely, and while _some_ class would be nice, if I couldn't get the Cullens and the Hales on my side, I needed all the support I could get. So I let him blather on at me all the way to the gym, half-listening, mostly concentrating on forcing down my anger and humiliation.

As we were entering the gym, he asked, almost casually, "So, what's the deal with you and Edward Cullen? I swear, if looks could kill, they'd've had two bodies to clear up. What did you _do_ to each other? I've never seen him act like that before."

All that time spent supressing my anger, for nothing. It came rushing back, and I struggled not to show it more than absolutely necessary. "I don't know," I said, coldly. "He doesn't seem to like me much. I couldn't tell you why."

"He's a weird guy." Perhaps that was meant to be comforting. "I don't see why he wouldn't like you. He's lucky to be sitting next to you."

I forced a smile with absolutely no real feeling behind it. "Thank you, Mike," I said, as sweetly as I could manage, and followed the other girls into the changing room, leaving him at the door.

The professor found me a uniform – finally! A uniform, in this mess of a school! – but told me I could sit on the sidelines for today. I watched the Muggles play some kind of crude game involving punching a ball over a net, but my mind was elsewhere. Again, my fingertips were drumming out that rhythm, expressing my irritation when I wouldn't allow it to show on my face.

At last, the lesson, and the day, finished, and I escaped into the driving wind outside. The rain had stopped, but it was colder than it had been, and the rising gale caught my hair. I was glad I had decided to plait it. I sauntered towards the reception building, seeing no reason to hurry – after all, if I spent long enough in the relative shelter of the school, the wind might drop and make getting home less of a chore.

Coming in from the cold, the office seemed more overheated than ever. But that wasn't what made my mood darken further than ever.

Edward Cullen was standing there, his back to me, arguing with the receptionist in a low, angry voice. Craning to listen, I made out the gist of the conversation. He was asking to be transferred out of sixth-period Biology to another class. The subtext was clear; for whatever reason, one lesson was one lesson too many for him. He wanted to be as far away from me as possible.

How dare he?

At that moment, the door opened again, and the wind gusted through the room, apparently catching his attention. Cullen tensed, turning his head. I met his glare evenly, for the third time that day, my arms folding. But, despite myself, I was unnerved. There was hate in his eyes – genuine hate, hardly unfamiliar to me, but from somebody I had never hurt and hardly even talked to, it was... disconcerting.

He turned away after an instant, hastily making his excuses to the receptionist, and swept past me, out into the driving wind. I was left standing there, white with anger and a little shaken, certain of only two things.

Firstly, Cullen was dangerous.

And secondly, I needed him on my side.


	4. Wuthering Heights

**A/N:** Well, it finally sprang into existence. I really do apologise for how sporadically I update things, and for how short this chapter is, but I hope you like!  
And, with luck, actual fun bloody stuff should start happening soon... it's taking a while to get going.

**Wuthering Heights**

The next day came all too soon. It had at least stopped raining; the clouds were heavy, but for autumn, it was warm. I managed to find myself a skirt, tucked in the back of Isabella's wardrobe, which, while shorter than I would have liked (it fell just past my knees, and I was glad for some good, warm tights under it – although I would have preferred a simple Warming Charm) was at least reasonably tasteful, and a nice shade of green. I chose to walk most of the way to school, divining by the sullen look of the sky that I should take my chance while the weather held. Besides, it gave me an excuse to leave the house early, and time for solitude and reflection – usually not my favourite pastime, but my father had always recommended fresh air to clear one's head. And, if this was to work, I would need all my faculties.

I both awaited and dreaded seeing Cullen again. Awaited, because I was determined to win him over to my side by fair means or foul, and the sooner I could start, the sooner it would be done; dreaded, because he had humiliated me twice already and I do not take kindly to humiliation. As it turned out, I could just have easily saved myself that double anxiety; he wasn't there.

I had expected to see him at lunchtime, but as I followed Jessica (who had apparently dubbed herself my new best friend) into the hall, glancing over at the Cullens' table, I saw a distinct lack of bronze-coloured hair. Oh, his siblings were there – graceful and aloof as the most pureblooded wizards – but the fifth seat at the table was empty.

For a moment, I debated whether to go over there anyway. After all, it wasn't as if Edward was the only Cullen, and perhaps I might gain a more pleasant reception from his siblings than from him. On the other hand, my embarrassment of the day before was still scorched into my mind. Was it really worth risking a repeat of so public a humiliation, just to talk to some rude American Muggles? I didn't think so. At least in Biology, I had a measure of privacy if everything went wrong. No, I decided, as Mike ushered us towards his table, better to stick to Edward for now, until a better opportunity presented itself. If and when I saw him in Biology later, I would make a start.

I didn't. In Biology, I sat silent and irritable at the empty desk, more angry than ever at his cowardice and his sheer _rudeness_. How dare he not show his face? If he had a problem with me, let him say so and deal with the consequences. At least then he could stop wasting my time.

My anger persisted only until the next lesson, where, changing into my exceptionally unflattering uniform, I proceeded to almost break somebody's nose with a particularly violent serve – we were playing the same game I had observed the day before, "volleyball". As I saw it, it was rather like a cross between Beating and Chasing in Quidditch, neither of which I was hugely proficient at, but it was much, much easier off the broom. Despite myself, I found that I enjoyed the game. It was simple, but there was great satisfaction to be had from watching one's opponents scatter from the more vicious serves. I went home almost contented, even the sight of the Cullens and Hales in the car park insufficient to lower my mood.

Upstairs, I took out one of the books we had been assigned, feeling it best to take advantage of my rare good mood to tackle the undoubted direness of Muggle literature. Perhaps it was that mood, perhaps it was the other, deeper irritation I still felt, or perhaps it was simple homesickness for Britain, but I found the book I had chosen – _Wuthering Heights_ – surprisingly gripping. The writer had well documented the bleakness and wildness of rural England, and there was a darkness to the story which I found appealing, even if I had little time for the weak-willed, silly female protagonist. I was still reading it, surprised by my own appreciation of it, when I heard two things at once; Charlie opening the front door, and the bitter, buzzing ring I had learnt was the telephone.

_Wuthering Heights_ went to one side, but I held back a moment before heading downstairs. I didn't want to be the one to answer that telephone, and some sixth sense kept me back from getting myself involved. It wasn't until the soft murmur of voices downstairs stilled, and I guessed he'd put the telephone back, that I started down the stairs.

He met me at the bottom, with a frown. "That was Renee," he told me. It took me a moment to remember who Renee was – my alleged mother – but I didn't let myself show my confusion, just nodded, looking mildly quizzical. Charlie's frown slackened, just a little. "She wanted to know why you haven't emailed her yet. You should have told me you were here, Bella, you could have spoken to her."

Thank Salazar I had stayed quietly upstairs! But the idiot wasn't done yet. "Why don't you call her back? She's worried about you." He was already moving back towards the phone. I would have to act quickly – he might be stupid enough to fall for my admittedly dire American accent, but if 'I' had been living with this Renee woman before coming here, she would undoubtadly see right through my deception.

"No," I said, quickly – perhaps a little _too_ quickly – and cleared my throat. "No, I'll... email her. I just can't work out how to access my mail, that's all." Carefully couched in the most neutral terms I could manage, as, of course, I had no idea what on earth this 'email' business was.

He frowned a little. "Is there a problem with the connection or something? Can't you get online?"

"I don't know," I said, for once truthfully, and shrugged, giving him my most innocent, silly-me smile. It wasn't a smile I had much practice with.

At any rate, though, it seemed to garner me the results I needed; ten minutes later, I had discovered not only what 'email' was, but also 'internet', an 'inbox', and the box where everything in this Muggle world seemed to happen; my 'computer'. It was, thankfully, laid out simply enough that an imbecile would have found it easily understood, and I was no imbecile. Which only left one problem; now that I had no excuse not to write to this woman I had never met nor desired to meet, what was I supposed to write?

It helped that I had something to reply to – the stupid woman had left not one, not two, but _three_ progressively more neurotic emails for me. I chose the first, the only one approaching sanity, to respond to.

_Dear Mom_ – an appalling start, but it was how she had signed off her own emails, so who was I to argue?

_You needn't have called Charlie. I was just having a little trouble with the computer._

_My flight was fine. It was raining, but it seems to have let up a bit today. As for your pink blouse, I don't know where it is. Perhaps where you left it? _But that seemed a little acid for sweet little Bells Swan, so I Vanished it (the button was marked Del, but did the same job, in any case) and moved on.

_I'm very busy at the moment, so if you e-mail me again, it might take me a while to respond. Say hello to Phil for me, as well. I miss you too._

_Bella._

That, I thought, scrutinising my work, should be sickly sweet enough to do the job. Before I could overanalyse my impersonation skills and work myself into some kind of agony of indecision – unlikely, but possible – I pressed the _Send_ button, and relaxed back into my chair, picking up _Wuthering Heights_ again to relax in the knowledge of a job well done. Hopefully, that was that dealt with for the time being. If not, well, I would cross that bridge when I came for it.

There was something bittersweet about my reading. Despite myself, I found myself intensely moved by the novel, not by the story, but by the setting. Until that moment, I had hardly realised how horribly homesick I was for the comforts of our manor, or the power I wielded at Hogwarts, or, most of all, my family. Reading about the blasted moors and windswept hillscapes of rural England, I found homesickness hitting me like a solid pain in the chest, twisting and curling into anger more bitter than ever.

Damn whoever was responsible for this. I would find out who it was, and let subtlety be damned – when I found them, I would make them beg for death. No idle threat. I was a Black, the _best_ of the Blacks, and I would not stand for letting myself be used, abused, _hurt_.

I would not stand for anything which made my eyes sting and blur as they were now.

Yes, subtlety be damned. I would rather be in Azkaban than trapped here, helpless and weak. I would get the Cullens on my side, I would find myself a base from which to work, and everyone in this blasted town, every agent of my humiliation, would be brought low, would be hurt as they had hurt me. Would, eventually, be allowed to die.

They would see death as a kindness, that was my solemn oath. And Bellatrix Black _always_ keeps her promises.


End file.
